As though in a dream, she watched the coiled snake spread its mouth wide, baring its protruding fangs. It lunged toward her. She’d always imagined that death would come quickly, not slowly, giving her time to scream against the injustice. Thunder echoed, and the rattlesnake disappeared.
“You all right?” Clay asked as he grabbed her arm. She stared at him mutely, and he shook her, his voice growing louder. “Are you all right?”
The knowledge that she was alive surged through her simultaneously with the realization that he was touching her. She jerked free of his grasp. “Don’t ever touch me.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know why I was worried. Your hatred probably would have poisoned the rattler if he’d had the misfortune to dig his fangs into you.”
Reaching into the thicket, he retrieved the lifeless rattlesnake. “If my rifle blast didn’t clear the area of game, your scream did. Guess we’ll eat rattler for supper.”
Meg stared at the long, thick length of dark brown and gray. Clay held the mangled snake level with his chest, and still its tail brushed the ground. Even in death, the snake’s massive body appeared powerful and deadly, and she’d been its prey. She shook violently as her stomach lurched.
“Are you gonna be sick?” Clay asked.
The tingling beneath her jaws increased in intensity. She felt the blood drain from her face and cold sweat pop out on her brow. She clutched the wood to her chest, searching for something to stop the trees from spinning. He knocked the wood out of her arms.
“Grab your knees,” he ordered. “Take deep breaths.”
She tried to breathe deeply, but the air was beyond reach and eluded her as easily as the calm she fought to maintain. The burning in her stomach rose into her throat, and she began retching.
Clay walked away, and she was grateful that he left her to suffer this embarrassment alone. She was more grateful that he’d hauled the snake away with him.
She heaved long past the time when her stomach was empty. Hearing approaching footsteps, she pressed her balled fist against her aching midriff and slowly straightened her quaking body. Despite the lingering warmth of day, she felt chilled.
“Here,” Clay said as he shoved a tin cup filled with water beneath her nose. “Go on. Take it. I didn’t drink from it.”
She took the cup, filled her mouth with water, and swirled the lukewarm liquid around before spitting it out. She repeated the process while Clay gathered the wood.
“I’ll get the fire started,” he said just before he walked away.
The sun had fallen beyond the horizon by the time she found the strength and desire to return to their small camp.
Hunkered down before the crackling fire, Clay removed their dinner from the spit. Sitting opposite him, Meg leaned against the tree. She hadn’t realized how dark it had grown until she watched the writhing flames create dancing shadows across Clay’s features. He’d removed his hat, and the firelight waltzed across the white hair at his temples.
“I thought I was going to die,” she said quietly in a quivering voice. “I can’t seem to stop shaking.”
“You just need to think about something else. You might try looking at the sky and counting the stars.”
She gazed at the cloudless black heavens where a full moon glowed brightly. Beyond it, the stars winked. “How many stars do you think there are?”
“Couple of million, I reckon.”
Drawing up her legs, she wrapped her arms tightly around them in an effort to stop her trembling. She pressed her chin against her knees. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert with a rifle.”
“Haven’t missed a target since I was twelve.”
“Just think about how many Yankees you could have killed if you hadn’t been a coward.”
His somber gaze met hers. “I did think about it, Mrs. Warner. I thought about it long and hard.”
Picking up a tin plate, he stood. “Help yourself to what’s left.” He walked to the wagon, dropped to the ground, and pressed his back against the wheel. Rolling to one hip, he dug a small rock from beneath him and hurled it across the clearing.
Meg jumped when the rock hit a tree, and a sharp crack rent the still night air. She removed her hat and flattened it against her face, inhaling deeply so she wouldn’t have to smell the aroma of cooked rattlesnake. The hat carried Kirk’s fading scent, and she knew a time would come when the hat would smell more of her than it did of him. Until that time, it served as a reminder of the comfort he’d always brought her. When he’d left, she’d slept with his silly hat pressed beneath her cheek.
“Do you want me to try and find you something else to eat?”
Meg jerked the hat away from her face. Clay was crouching before her, his gaze riveted on the fire.
“No, I don’t think anything would stay down just yet.”
